


Wherein Betrayal is Concerned

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [11]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Betrayal, Blood, Blood Drinking, Cults, Daedra Worship (Elder Scrolls), Dirty Talk, Human Sacrifice, Kissing, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Rimming, Size Difference, also vira kisses his corpse so dont read if thats a nope, faendal straight up dies in the end, weirdly sweet? and weirdly poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29720628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: In order to gain Boethiah's favor, Viraven brings an old friend to their shrine.
Relationships: Original Dunmer Character/Faendal
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 173
Kudos: 11





	Wherein Betrayal is Concerned

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> Tags are very important here. There is a death, which isn't part of my usual contents. Specifically a throat being slit, and the death description itself is over rather quickly. Still, though, please be aware of what you're getting into.
> 
> So, the Faendal thing has arrived. I kind of like it, to be honest.
> 
> Next up involves K's lovely idea about the secret room in Hjerim.

When Viraven had aided Faendal in his little smear campaign, what felt like ages ago, he had already sensed the hunter would one day be of use to him.

Now, he had finally managed to contact Boethiah, the last Daedric Prince he wanted to pledge to, after successful patronage from Mephala, Molag Bal, and Sanguine, and his connection to Nocturnal after the fetcher Frey was over and done with.

He'd been handed an ornate blade and an order to find an unwitting sacrifice, one who considered him a friend, to bring to the Sacellum. It hadn't taken him long to decide who he would take. Viraven's sharp tongue and status as a stranger had made a fool of the Nord Sven, made certain the Valerius girl would never so much as cast a glance his way again. Faendal had owed him a favor for it for a while now, and he'd promised the Dunmer-turned his skill with a bow, if necessary.

That was why he had come to Riverwood again for the first time in a long time, buying the sweet thing a drink at the Sleeping Giant Inn, telling him of a journey he had to make. A bounty put out by Ulfric Stormcloak - though that rat bastard had nothing to do with it, in truth - to deal with a few cultists causing problems for the farms below the mountain holding the shrine. He spun the story on the spot, how they shouldn't be too powerful, but he'd need someone to cover him from a distance, an archer or a mage. Promised Faendal half of the bounty and the loot, if he agreed to it.

And agree to it he did, whether it was simply to even out the favor he owed, or for the money it would give him.

The hunter was in high spirits during the journey, happy to "get out and stretch his legs", as he put it. They stuck to the main roads, but Viraven managed to have them travel mostly by night, making excuses for it - less people out, easier to hide, the bandits were lazier. The hunter practically fed himself, going off during their rests to find rabbits or birds, but the Dunmer-turned found he had to put aside his own hunger in order to raise no suspicion. Faendal had never met his mortal self, did not recognise the difference, and Viraven's garments covered the faint, symmetrical scars on his neck. But going off to feed was a poor idea.

They encountered little trouble on the way, though their final late-evening trek up the mountain was harsh and precarious. The winds in Eastmarch gave its capital a fitting name, and this night was no different. It picked up the loose snow on the mountainside, carried it around, blowing it into hoods and gloves and boots, seemingly without care for how tightly they were tied.

Not so different from Morrowind ash, in that regard, though even more uncomfortable.

The welcome sight of the shrine, though, was worth the hassle. He'd been there before, though only briefly, and it was much more impressive at night, and without the presence of Boethiah's worshippers. Their little encampment remained, but was now empty, and Viraven didn't much care where they had gone. They may be followers of the Daedric Prince of betrayal, an unpredictable lot at best, but none of them had looked to be formidable in battle. 

Faendal's eyes were drawn to the statue even as he looked through the tents, and the Dunmer-turned knew this would all unfold easily, were he as amazed as he appeared.

He was, it turned out, and when Viraven gave him an impish look and told him he wanted to have a closer look at it, the little hunter was quick to follow. They ascended the stone steps, and the vampire realised for the first time how far their view reached from atop the platform. By now, it was nearly pitch black, but his eyes knew the darkness well, and he swore he could see the silhouette of forests many days' travel away. 

Aside from the statue, the shrine seemed humble, unassuming, only inhabited by a few bottles (offerings of poison, he was fairly certain), and the stone pole in the middle, as tall as he was, a few circular carvings sprouting from it on the floor of the platform.

None of it was all that remarkable, until Faendal stepped closer to the statue.

The patterns adorning the ground around the pole began to swirl and pulse, glowing brightly against the dark mountain night. Faendal appeared almost entranced by it, the blue light reflecting in his black eyes.

"What...is that?", he asked, an almost reverent tone to his voice. Viraven supposed they saw little magic in Riverwood. He feigned interest in it, regardless, wanting to wait as long as he could to alert the Bosmer that something was wrong.

"I'm not certain." He hummed once. "Restoration, maybe. A barrier, or a shield?"

Faendal gave a quiet "oh", and stepped one foot over the line separating the effect from the dull, gray stone. There was no effect, no attempt to shut him out, and the hunter's brow furrowed.

"Don't think it's a barrier."

"Guess not," said Viraven, still appearing to think, even though he was well aware of how it worked. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Could be coming from the pole, something hidden in it. I've seen similar things inside old Dwemer ruins, a few times. Try and figure it out, and I'll take a look around." The Dunmer-turned grinned. "Daedra shrines usually have old trinkets lying about. Could fetch us quite a bit of money."

It was still unassuming, a situation not unfamiliar to any traveller. Faendal suspected nothing. So Viraven watched as he moved closer to it, laying one hand on top of it, as if to see if he could simply feel the solution.

It did not give him a solution. Instead, when he went to withdraw his hand, it refused to budge. Almost as soon as the Bosmer realised he was truly stuck, his body turned on its own accord, leaving him entirely stuck to the pole, arms behind his back, frantically looking around. It had done what it was supposed to do, and it was Viraven's turn to take over.

"Trap, it's a trap." Faendal's breathing was quick. "It's not hurting me, but you have to get me loose."

Very suddenly flipping the switch, the Dunmer-turned closed in on him, brandishing the ritual dagger he had been given.

"You never quite learned to be careful who you trust, did you, little one?"

He twirled the knife skillfully, coming to a halt before the Bosmer.

"What?" Faendal simply looked at him, confused. "Just - just get me off this thing, alright?"

Viraven only smiled.

"I was told to bring someone here, someone who thought they knew me. Spill their blood upon the stone, in order to appease the Lord of Plots."

The poor thing's face fell, realisation haunting his sharp features.

"You wouldn't do that. No, no, you wouldn't-"

The ritual knife split his thin hide armor, startling him, interrupting. Viraven ripped the last bit open with his hands and the head-start the blade had given him, tugging Faendal forward slightly as he did. He seemed unable to locate his voice, only breathing rapidly as the Dunmer-turned took off the armor on his shoulders, too.

Viraven doubted he'd been faced with the prospect of death so closely before, and as he cut open the little hunter's under-shirt, baring his lean, muscular chest and stomach, he made a soft, amused noise in his throat, pinching lightly at a soft, bronze-coloured nipple. Somehow, that touch stirred the gears in Faendal's mind, and he found words at last.

"Help, h-help, please," he yelled, pulling wildly against his unnatural restraint. "Vira, Vira, please, I...I thought we were friends, allies, a-anything, I-"

"Hush, darling. Save your voice. There's no one to hear, this high up." He stroked the back of his hand down the Bosmer's cheek. "I  _ am _ your friend, and I will remember you fondly."

"It's...I don't want to die, Vira, I'm doing well for myself, I-I want to ask Camilla's hand,  _ please,  _ you can't…"

Viraven kissed the mer on his shivering mouth, their lips barely brushing against each other, the gesture holding nothing but affection.

"I'll tell her you died a hero's death, my love. She'll be so proud of you. She'll know how brave you were, how much heart you carried in you."

"I don't want a hero's death!", he managed, frantic and afraid. "I don't want one at all, not yet! There's so much left to do, I have so much time left, d-don't do this!"

Viraven did not answer him, only went on to cut open the little mer's trousers and take off his dark boots. Then, he loosened Faendal's soft, white hair, trailing his fingers through it. He let the knife clatter onto the stone, outside any possible reach for the Bosmer even if he had tried to grab it between toes. It was a possibility. Faendal was nothing if not resourceful, in spite of his naiveté. He was breathing heavily, a horror painted in his eyes that only intensified as Viraven dropped to his knees before him, uncertain of the Dunmer-turned's plan.

What he wanted was simple indulgence, to service the Bosmer before his end came. It felt only right, as if he were preparing the sacrifice, only a ritual among rituals. He untied the hunter's undergarment instead of cutting it open, not wanting to accidentally nick his beautiful skin.

And he truly was beautiful. His skin was an even, light brown, his shoulders wide. He was still young, his face only now beginning to lose its last softness, his cheekbones starting to grow sharper. For a Bosmer, he was tall, and his cock matched, long and slim. He exhaled, breathing warm air onto it, making Faendal shiver.

At his first, gentle touch to it, the Bosmer started.

"Wait, no no no, what are you doing-", he breathed, voice gone high with panic.

Then, Viraven leaned in and let his hand pull back the skin covering his length's head, giving it a tender lick. Then, he sucked it into his mouth, tongue swirling around the tip, his hand jerking him slowly, feeling the mer's cock begin to stiffen.

"Vira, no, I - mmh!"

The Dunmer-turned let his hand drop from it, instead taking his entire length in, giving him his undivided attention. Wanting to treat the Bosmer before his demise, he used his throat, swallowing around the intrusion, skillful and experienced enough not to gag. He let it speak for him, his servitude and his affection, loving the reactions he could wring from the Bosmer.

Faendal shook as he came, a breathy, high cry coming from him that almost made Viraven feel drunk. He kept his lips wrapped around the mer's cock as he spent himself, swallowing his seed without hesitation. A little tremble went through the little hunter's legs as his throat moved around his over-sensitive head, and the Dunmer-turned's own prick twitched at the feeling of it.

He withdrew, pressing a kiss to his hip-bone, hands running over his sides.

"That was lovely, my dear."

The Bosmer was sniffling quietly, looking at Viraven with plea in his eyes.

"Will you let me go, now?"

The vampire smiled.

"Did you forget the part where your blood would spill on the stone? The knife?"

"N-no, I just...I thought you were better than this..."

"Oh, absolutely not," he laughed. Then, he began to take off his own armor, piece by piece baring his smooth gray skin, marred only by a few light scars. Faendal averted his eyes, hurt and frightened.

"What are you going to do?"

Now nude as well, rid of his tight armor, Viraven stretched his shoulders, almost cat-like.

"Isn't it obvious?", he asked. "I'm gonna fuck you properly."

The Bosmer struggled uselessly for a moment, and then stilled, as if giving up, letting out a dry sob.

"Don't…"

Viraven spread apart his legs, hooking one of them over his shoulder in spite of the renewed attempts at protesting, holding it in place, effortlessly strong. Faendal was strong, too, but a different kind of it, wiry arms accustomed to wielding a bow, legs toned by carrying lumber. The Dunmer-turned may be weakened with the starvation of their journey here, but he had his arms free, his mind clear.

With his free hand, he pushed one slim ass-cheek aside, leaning in and tasting the flesh between them.

"By the Three," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of the Bosmer's thigh where it rested against him. "You're beautiful. Just perfect."

When he looked up at him, Faendal had gone red in the face again, looking up at the night sky, avoiding it all.

Viraven admired him for a moment longer before he dove back in, licking and kissing at his tight little opening, steady in his pressure. Unable to muffle himself, a high but quiet moan came from the smaller mer. As he dipped his tongue inside, only a little, the sound grew in volume, a shudder going through Faendal's body. 

_ How sweet,  _ he thought, smiling slightly, out of sight for the Bosmer. He continued to give him his full attention, the same kind he would have given when kissing, almost loving in his movements. He brought begrudging, pleasured noises from the mer, and when he retreated again, the little hunter's cheeks were crimson, his breathing heavy, his cock only slightly beginning to stir again, surprisingly fast. Gorgeous, truly, a picture painted against the cold northern night that he wished he could keep, if only inside of his head, so that he could carry a piece of the Bosmer with him.

He wanted to take his time preparing this one, ensure he did not hurt him. After all, he was small, and Viraven did not have any control of his mind, so he would not relax as much as the Dunmer-turned would have wanted of him. He would meet his death, in the end, but Viraven had meant it when he said he was fond of the sweet mer. He did not want to cause him any more pain than he needed to.

He coated his fingers in more oil than he normally used, smearing it liberally on his rim even after he'd used his mouth on the little hunter's hole. 

He simply circled the entrance for a moment, guiding him into loosening, and when he began to push inside, slow and methodical, his access came smoothly. But his target was unwilling, trying to free his hands, the leg Viraven held kicking out in defiance.

"Not like that," he breathed. "Please, don't do that…"

"Don't worry, darling. I'll make it good for you, too."

"I don't-"

He cut himself off with a pitchy little noise as Viraven's finger brushed up against some sensitive place, whining at the unwanted pleasure. Slowly, gently, the Dunmer-turned added another finger, all the while careful not to treat the little hunter harshly. He clenched down on the digits, and Viraven stilled his movement, his other hand petting the Bosmer's thigh.

"You need to relax, pet. You're little, I don't want to harm you."

Faendal sniffled, shaking his head.

"You  _ are,  _ you are harming m-me, stop!"

"Believe me," Viraven said, voice taking on a hint of sternness, "I am not harming you. I could hurt you badly like this, but I don't want that. You don't either, I assure you."

The sweet thing tried to unclench his hole again, but he was struggling not to tense up with fear.

"You can close your eyes, if you want," the Dunmer-turned murmured. "But this is going to happen."

He did close his eyes, but he was shivering like a leaf. Still gently stroking his thigh, Viraven began to move again, getting his slick fingers to the last knuckle and beginning to scissor the tight entrance open. Faendal gave little hoarse cries of abject pleasure, but he managed to relax his body enough for the penetration to go easily. The Dunmer-turned purred in approval, his dark hair falling over his sharp face.

"There you go…" he whispered. "It's easy, if you just give in."

The third finger met more resistance, but Viraven was patient, not breaking it as much as bending it, and hearing no pain in the noises the Bosmer made. Satisfied with the stretch, he pulled out and instead oiled his length, standing up and maneuvering the hunter's leg to hook his knee over his hip, keeping him spread that way.

He pushed inside of him with the same care, even though the poor little thing was shaking his head again, seeming afraid to speak for fear of what would come out if he opened his mouth. Viraven knew bodies, knew how they worked, and he found his angle easily, found the place among Faendal's soft insides that made him whimper and moan.

"Oh, you're just perfect," he crooned. "So tight. Such pretty sounds. I can see why Camilla Valerius wants you."

The Bosmer's brow furrowed, and he grimaced slightly.

"Don't...talk about her. Not now."

The next rock of Viraven's hips made Faendal tense and gasp, made his free leg jolt, and the Dunmer-turned grabbed this, too, wrapping them around his waist and holding him up with the strength of his arms. It only let his cock reach deeper, and the Bosmer's eyes glittered with the intensity of it. But he was growing hard again, without even being touched, so Viraven's effect on him was undeniable.

He was under no delusion that the hunter wanted this, but he wanted him to at least be treated with as much care as he deserved. He was a good mer, a good person, better than Viraven could ever hope, or want, to be. The kind of mer who deserved to be lavished upon, to be dressed in silk like a treasure. And he told him as much, sentences clipped by pleasured groans and sharp inhales. Faendal was burning hot in the face, embarrassed in every way, but had gone past the point of fighting back. He let himself be held up, even aided Viraven by tightening the grip of his legs around his middle, no longer tried to muffle himself or bite his tongue.

Able to free one hand, Viraven closed it around Faendal's beautifully reddened cock, letting both of their movements provide friction. He wondered if the mer sounded like this when he was with Camilla, if he made such desperate little noises, if his cheeks and nose flushed this way, if he ever teared up.

"So sweet," he whispered close to the mer's pretty ear, feeling a little tremble go through him. He kissed at his neck, and decided that when it was time, this was where he would cut him. Open him up there, too. There was something alluring about that place, especially, something artistic in the way the blood ran, the cut somehow neat and good-looking, in its own way. It would suit the pale bronze of his skin, the little white hairs on his chest and below his navel.

Thinking of the hunter split on Boethiah's ornate knife, red against snow, sent a wave of pleasure crashing against the cliffs of Viraven's inside, making him speed up, sheathe himself deeply, shoot his come into the hot, oiled hole. He continued jerking the Bosmer erratically, enjoying the knowledge he was unaware of what, exactly, had sent the Dunmer-turned over the edge.

Faendal's head lolled back, some of his white hair sticking against his sweaty forehead, and as Viraven began to feel sated, but sensitive, the Bosmer came, too, once more crying out in a way that felt deeply erotic, more intimate than anything the vampire could have hoped for. 

He helped the little hunter down on shaky legs, pulling out in the same movement. Faendal was clearly overwhelmed after coming twice, a bit out of it. He would have probably lost his balance, if he wasn't still stuck to the pole, and Viraven pulled him into a slow kiss, full of passion. He gave a sweetly confused little noise, unwittingly opening his mouth enough to let the Dunmer-turned gain entry, tongue gliding along the Bosmer's sharp canines, almost like his own.

He pulled back, their breaths coming out as plumes of smoke, and yet, he did not feel the cold as much as he thought he would. The warmth of their bodies stayed, the heady rush of having the little hunter's life before him, and it kept him away from Eastmarch's icy weather. He breathed in, breathed out, steadied himself. He felt ready. More than ready.

He picked up the knife from the ground, and when he stood back up, the Bosmer was watching him, terror-stricken and shaking.

"Please," he whispered, tears spilling over from his eyes. "I won't tell anyone, Vira, just let me go home…"

Viraven kissed the droplets from his cheeks, resting their foreheads against each other.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, my love," he said, voice the kind of sweet that was nauseating rather than pleasant. "Boethiah needs their payment."

"N-no, no, I swear this - it isn't worth it, no! Please!"

"I made my mind up long ago. But I promise you I'll take your bow with me, back to Camilla." He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and then let the knife dance across skin in one fast move.

The ritual blade sliced the flesh neatly, easily, and Faendal gave a small, gasping noise as blood flowed freely from the cut, draining him in another way entirely. Taking in the scent of iron, the heat of the Bosmer's true essence on his fingers, Viraven leaned in and tasted the injury, feeling the characteristic, hungry rumble of his chest as he did. A low growl overtaking him, he drank of the wound deeply, taking in the warmth, feeling it on his skin.

He revelled in the mess they created, in the rattle of the little hunter's throat, in the pure wrongness of it all. But there was something appropriately ritualistic about it, in the indulgence, the hedonistic pleasure of the taste of blood in his mouth. 

He'd wondered if Boethiah was watching, but now he knew they must be, and he hoped he had given them a good show, if they even appreciated such things. Faendal's eyes were unblinking, unseeing, losing the spark of life, and yet he was beautiful like this. Viraven pressed one last kiss to his soft, warm lips, staining them crimson.

The pole had released its hold on him, and he was only held up by the Dunmer-turned's own hands. They were illuminated by the moons’ light, making the sweet thing look paler than usual, reflecting against the silver-white of his long hair. He was naked and coated in his own life-blood, they both were, and it had coloured the snow in rivulets, making dark shapes against the white of the snow, of the mer in his arms.

When the body that had once belonged to Faendal began to stir, to speak in a voice so clearly not his, Viraven let go, let it stand on its own volition. The Prince of Deceit exhaled a groan, and then looked to the Dunmer-turned, the Bosmer's black eyes still dull.

"Agh, wearing flesh is so...distasteful." They did not seem phased by their nudity, or his, or the cooling blood that coated them both. "You have caught my attention, mortal. That is most unwise. Tell me, why have you come here? Why have you slain this one, who trusted you, upon my shrine?"

Barely mortal, and hardly unwise, Viraven grinned, invigorated by his pretty friend's gentle ruin, and where his slaughter had taken him.

"I have come only to lend you my talents. Wherein betrayal is concerned, there is none better."


End file.
